The wall at Cauldkeld had been rebuilt with the black faces turned in, and Corin saw that from two hundred yards up the hill, before he saw the woman standing at it.
He had walked down behind Orla all morning, off the shoulder of the ridge and down the north wall of the valley by a sheep track that had been a sheep track four years ago and was one again, and he had read the ground as he came, because his eyes did it whether he wanted them to or not. Two mules going up, a week since. A dog. A cart on the valley road that had not been there when the road was his. Peat cut on the moss above the head of the water, this spring, in neat rows, by somebody with a good spade and time. And the wall, running down from the house to…
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